


The Past of the Willing Bride

by karmascars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blowjobs, Curses, M/M, esoteric references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 00:37:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars
Summary: A sacrifice must be made. The good thing about some spells is they're vague enough for loopholes...





	The Past of the Willing Bride

**Author's Note:**

> The title was the prompt. As for the rest, well, join me in the sin bin.

****“You don’t have to do this.”

Dean’s eyes are so dry. The bonfire of the abandoned house behind them whips smoke toward the stars, a frenzy of sparks dancing through the stand of pines around it. He feels like crying, choked up and shit, but nothing’s coming and damnit, his eyes burn.

His brother’s jaw is set. “Yeah. I do.”

“Bullshit.” Dean feels his blood boiling in his face. “We don't give up that easy.”

Behind them, a rafter falls in with a gut-clenching crash.

“Says the guy who just torched potential solutions because it was quicker!”

“I—That’s not what fucking happened!” Dean yells back. “It wasn’t all supposed to go.”

“Right,” Sam sighs, “because fire stops at the crosswalk.”

They both turn back to watch as the second floor gives way completely.

Dean’s mind is racing but there’s nothing there, zero to ninety in the fucking Sahara. He’s not letting Sam go back down in that bunker thing back there in the backyard, he knows that for sure, but Sam is big and determined.

And right. Their last hope lies in those archives.

Goddamnit, they have to go back. Otherwise, Sam will go even further into the forest, and—

“Why’s it gotta be you, huh?” Dean demands. “Why ain’t I bride material?”

Sam snorts. “How do you want me to answer that?”

Dean frowns up at his brother. “With the truth, numbnuts.” He works his lips around, but they fall back into a downturned shape. “Why do you figure I should let you sacrifice yourself?”

“Let me?”

Oh, Sam’s just fucking with him now. Dean turns back to the fire. Can’t look him in the eye at the moment. Despite needing to cry, he doesn’t want to.

“Hey.”

Well, shit. He can’t not look when Sam says it like that.

Reluctantly, Dean faces him again, only to see the flames reflected in eyes as wide and sorry as they’ve ever been. Tears enough for the both of them swim just beyond his reach, but Sam’s smile isn’t watery. Just fond.

“You’ve done enough sacrificing,” his brother says gently. “Let me.”

Dean shakes his head, sharp, involuntary. “Ain’t gonna happen.”

“Dean—”

“We will go back down there,” he continues over Sam, jabbing a finger toward the backyard, “but you are _not_ doing _any fucking sacrificing_ until we’ve exhausted our other options.”

Sam nods. “I can live with that.”

“You’re gonna have to,” Dean says, beginning his wide tromp around the side of the conflagration. They sink into silence quickly, the crackle and pop of the flames camouflaging their footfalls.

Too soon, they’re back at the entrance to the house’s secret underground bunker, a nondescript little porthole with a ring, concealing a ladder leading—in Dean’s opinion—too far down.

Sam lets him go first.

It’s dank down there. Dark as fuck. There are the ubiquitous cobwebs, which Dean hates, and stabs at with his flashlight. On second thought, he casts about for a stick of some kind, and finds a knobbly walking stick in a huge vase by the base of the ladder.

He uses it, however irreverently, to collect the webs. He wonders if he can use it like a torch when he’s got enough on there.

Of course, Sam makes a beeline for the little library, flashlight beam aimed at the bottom shelf. The manuscript is where he left it. Hauling it over to the dusty desk, he plops it down on top of the papers again, huffing air out his nose when dust shoots up it.

“What did it say about the phials?” Dean asks. “I thought just stickin’ ‘em together would break the curse.”

“Well, it didn’t,” Sam says. He’s not being rude, just musing. “It might be because once a sacrifice is chosen, there’s no way to reverse it. Or, the way to reverse it has nothing to do with the way we got cursed in the first place.”

“Which is bullshit,” Dean mutters.

It was supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn. A haunting in western Connecticut. When they got there, it was legit: old abandoned house, rattling windows and doors, broken glass, the whole shebang. Except when they started looking for the family cemetery, that’s when things got weird.

They found a hidden bunker apparently built by a sorcerer living around the time of the Great Depression. Dean scoffed at the use of that word, but as he and Sam explored further, he couldn’t really deny its validity.

The dude wasn't just into magic, but also some sinister-looking alchemy. One of the rooms further back held ancient, delicate glass beakers and bulbs still full of coagulated ingredients. Protection symbols from every known creed were set in metal into the walls of this place, and some of the artifacts on the shelves gave off unsettling auras even Dean could feel.

Above, outside, something crashes to the ground with such force the whole bunker shakes. Dust rattles down from the ceiling.

Sam and Dean look from it to each other, Sam already heading back to his side.

“What do you figure—”

“Do we wanna know?” Dean grimaces. “Maybe we should just speed up lookin’.”

“No, I need to see.” Sam heads toward the ladder. He’s got his foot on the first rung when Dean remembers something.

“Hey! Didn’t we find a periscope down here?”

Sam turns around. “Holy shit, we did. It’s this way.” He skips into a jog.

Down the hallway, barely tall enough for him, and a sharp right into what Dean will now be calling the observatory. Sam's flashlight bobs wildly, catching a glint of metal off at the far end.

He reaches it and grabs the handles, flashlight crammed between his hand and what looks like wrapped leather, light pointed at the ceiling. Dean’s got his trained on Sam.

“I don’t see—whoa,” Sam says, muffled by the viewer, which looks like it was stolen from Tim Burton’s optometrist. “The house is _gone._ ”

“Well, we did just burn it down.”

“No, dude, it’s literally gone. There’s barely even any evidence of the fire, just sparks. Some smoldering trees. And there’s a—” Dean can hear his brother squinting. “What the hell?”

From above, another crash. It’s not as deafening, the room doesn’t shake as much, but it’s still pretty fucking ominous. Whatever makes a noise like that is usually huge.

There is is again.

And again.

“Is something walking around up there?” Dean whispers.

Sam doesn’t answer. His face is plastered to the viewer.

“Sammy?”

“It’s—Well, if you can call it walking.” He steps back. “See for yourself.”

Dean glances up at him quizzically before taking his place at the periscope. At first, all he can see is black dotted with bright orange, the forest at the end of the fire. But then something moves.

It's his turn to squint.

Something totters amid the shadows, a large, round, blobby black shape only just darker than its surroundings. It twists, looks down, and smashes its fat fist on whatever it saw. Sparks fly up. The area shakes.

Through the insulation, they can hear it giggle.

“That’s a,” Dean swallows. “A fucking baby?”

“An enormous, black magic blob baby, yes,” Sam says. He sounds tired.

“What.” Stepping back from the viewer, Dean shakes his head. “What?”

“It makes sense.”

“ _How_ does that make _sense?!”_ They’ve both pointed their flashlights at the light-colored ceiling, bathing the room in a soft glow. Sam doesn’t seem all that uncomfortable. So casual, discussing his eminent—

Nope, not thinking about it.

“Well,” he says, “the text mentioned a child of magic. We thought it was the guy’s actual daughter. Guess it’s this thing.”

Dean’s mouth works, but no sound comes out. When he can, he blurts, “But what does that have to do with the curse?”

Sam sighs. “Willing bride, right? His wife was probably pregnant when they married. Signs point to her dying in childbirth.” He gives the wall in the direction of their discovery a long, hard look. “This is the personification of grief.”

“It doesn't change anything,” Dean says. “I still say it shouldn’t be you.”

“Why not?” Sam’s gaze returns to him. It’s steady, and it’s stupid, because it’s so good at making Dean cave. “Give me one good reason.”

 _Because I can’t lose you!_ His mind howls. He swallows. “Because it shouldn't.”

Sam turns away. “Not good enough.” His flashlight finds the doorway. The floor. Heading to his doom.

Panicking, Dean says, “Because I’ve been in love with you since we were kids.”

His brother stops still.

Dean should keep talking.

“I, uh. Yeah.”

Smooth.

Turning only his head, Sam asks, “How long?”

And Dean is glad there’s no light on his face, because he can feel the flush spreading beneath his skin.

“Um,” he continues, eloquent as ever. “A long-ass while.”

“How long?” Sam presses.

“I was young, alright?” Dean snaps. “Really young. Too young to be so sure I wanted to—” Shit. But it was out there. Might as well finish the sentence.

Mostly. He hums. “—be with my brother someday.”

Sam is silent. Dean can’t read his expression from here, and is starting to grind his molars by the time Sam answers, “Me too.”

Wait, what? “You—what?”

“I was young, too,” his brother says simply.

Dean is walking toward him. Slowly. Unaware he’s moving until he _can_ see Sam’s face, the conflicting emotions washing over it, hope and denial and stubbornness.

_He’s gonna say it won’t change a thing._

“It won’t—”

“Shut _up,_ ” Dean tells him, and makes it happen with a graceless kiss.

Sam’s inhale is sharp and cold on his cheek. His brother’s giant hand finds his face, they tilt, used to this in other ways, and it’s the best damn kiss Dean’s ever had. Down in a moldering crypt, about to die, _again_. How fucking typical.

Perfect.

They part with a gasp.

“Dean—” Sam begins.

“Nope,” Dean denies him. Kisses him again. If he can keep Sam from talking, from reasoning, he might just keep him long enough for it to matter.

He walks them back until they slam into the wall. Sam’s hands are running up the sides of his face, into his hair and around to cup the back of his head and keep his lips pinned. A swipe of tongue and he parts them eagerly.

 _Holy shit_ , a dazed part of him thinks. _Sammy, you’re—_

He moans.

Sam, the bastard, chuckles across their tongues, down Dean’s throat and straight to his cock. He shivers, and Sam responds by catching him up in strong arms, against the warm solid heat of him that Dean has always associated with home. Whether they have to share a bed, the back seat of the Impala, or they’re huddled together on watchman’s duty on some miserable job, Sam’s warmth is a comfort. Safe.

Go figure that this is happening now. Nothing safe about it.

They part again. Dean’s lips are tingling, puffy and sensitive. He licks them.

Sam whines under his breath.

Instinct has Dean rutting up against him, and echoing the noise in delight when he finds his brother as hard as he is. Fuck it, if they’re going to die, he’s doing this. He’ll beg forgiveness later if it turns out he needs to.

He drops to his knees with a dull thud.

“Dean,” Sam utters in shock.

Dean's already fumbling with his belt.

“What are you—” It doesn’t sound like Sam is sure what’s going on. Dean intends to enlighten him. He gets the buckle undone, the button, the zipper, dragging it down over the bulging monster it conceals.

Sam is wearing one of his faded pairs of plaid boxers. It’s easy to fish him out of the slit in the front. He hisses, sagging down the wall a little, as Dean’s calloused fingers explore him for the first time.

He’s _huge._

Dean knew, but he didn’t _know_ know, and now he’s glad Sam can’t see the way his jaw drops as he feels the heft, the length, the girth of his brother’s cock. It’s gotta be at least nine inches, if not longer. They’re both cut, but Dean is more of a grower than a shower and definitely thicker around. His own cock feels like a Coke can between his legs compared to the prize-winning stallion he’s holding.

An urge seizes him. He’s done it before, but not recently. Not for Sammy.

The thought makes his mouth water.

“Dean, what are you—Oh _shit,_ ” Sam breaks off, the swear a low and strained sort of noise. “ _Dean._ ”

Dean can only hum around his mouthful, working his way down the length toward the heat and wiry curls at its base. He gets pretty far before his gag reflex makes him ease back off. But he plunges right back down.

He hears Sam’s head thunk back against the wall, and grins as well as he can.

It’s not as weird as it should be that he already loves the taste of Sam’s cock. In fact, it _is_ weird, in that it isn’t weird at all. Dean would have figured he’d freak out about this, but instead, he spreads his knees as far as he can on the dirty floor and plants his hands on the wall on either side of Sam’s hips so he can bob his head more freely. It doesn’t wrench his neck this way. In fact, he can get a little deeper.

Sam groans, hips working in subtle figure eights. He must be holding back. He doesn’t want to fuck Dean’s face as hard as Dean knows he could.

Dean’s not sure he doesn’t want him to.

Swirling his tongue around the shaft, he shifts his weight to his right elbow so he can curl his left around what his mouth doesn’t cover. He begins to jack those inches, meeting his own lips with his fist, sucking harder and paying special attention to the head, which swells.

A breathy sort of gasp heaves in above him. “Dean,” Sam mewls, the word stretched into too many vowels and sounds.

He takes it as encouragement and really pulls out the stops.

It’s easy to lose track of time when your whole world narrows to scents and sounds, tastes and sensations. The push-pull of his own arousal feeds his desire to make Sammy feel good, and Dean doesn’t let up. He sucks like Sam is one of those super thick milkshakes he really ought to use a spoon for, spit running under his fist and making the slide of it slick. Dirty.

The only thing holding Sam up is the wall. His hands find Dean’s hair and clutch at him, not pressing, not guiding, just as an anchor. His hips haven’t stopped their steady pulsing.

Outside, a crash shakes the bunker again, this time so badly Dean stumbles forward and deepthroats Sam without meaning to.

For one long, blessed moment, he doesn’t gag. Sam’s cock fills him up so completely, it’s beautiful. Dean would never have figured he’d cream himself on that alone.

But it’s been awhile since he’s fucked anyone, and, well. It’s Sam.

The noise he makes around his brother's cock is inhuman, the whole of him spasming, coming a flood in his fucking jeans. His grip on Sam tightens, he pulls back to swallow his spit, a whimper escaping—He’s still coming—

 _Sam,_ he’d whisper, but it comes out a throaty whine instead that must vibrate like heaven, because Sam mutters, “ _Fuck,_ ” jabs in deep, and comes in a torrent down Dean’s throat.

What he can taste of it isn’t great, but he swallows every drop.

It’s Sam.

It's _Sam._

When he pulls off with a pop, Sam lets out a little overstimulated sound. He slides down the wall, dick still halfway-hard, to land on his ass in front of Dean. What Dean can see of him in the gloom looks happy.

Dean’s hips twitch forward once more. He falls to the side from his knees, on his ass as well.

They breathe in the silence.

Wait—

Sam’s frowning. “Why can’t we hear anything?”

“I have no ide—eww,” Dean complains as he struggles to his feet, squishing in his drawers.

His brother snorts.

“You shut up,” he says fondly, offering a hand. Sam takes it and hauls himself up with a groan.

They make their way back to the periscope.

Sam looks first. Dean’s got a palm flat on the small of his back, not content to stop touching him just yet.

“There’s nothing out there,” comes the confused report.

“Let me see.” Sam moves, and Dean plasters his face to the viewer.

Nothing. He was right. The trees aren’t even smoldering much anymore, the empty space left by the house a placid, moonlit clearing. It's fucking _peaceful._

“What the hell happened?” he wondered, leaving the periscope.

They meander to the ladder, Sam tucking himself away, Dean trying not to think about how much it’ll suck cleaning this drying mess from his pubes later.

He lets Sam go first this time.

It’s totally not an excuse to ogle his ass in those jeans.

Topside, they gaze around the clearing. It looks… well, for lack of a better word, normal. Despite the distinct lack of house, there’s nothing else wrong with the scene. The glint of chrome back up the drive reassures him that Baby is safe.

But speaking of babies, there’s no sign of the monstrosity they saw. There’s no ectoplasm or other kind of residue on the trees, or the ground. There aren’t even any giant footprints. It’s like the thing was never here.

Shaking his head, Sam starts to laugh.

Dean turns. “What’s up?”

By this point Sam is in hysterics, laughing so hard he has to hold up a finger, peals of it ringing off the trees. He winds down as quickly as he can, scrubbing at his face.

“You know what the French call orgasm?”

“Search me,” Dean deadpans.

“Le petite mort,” Sam chortles. “The little death.”

“Wha—Ha! So I killed you enough for Time Baby over here,” Dean says, laughter bubbling up within him.

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

They both share a quiet chuckle.

“So she really did love him,” slips from Dean before he thinks about it.

Sam huffs. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’m glad.” And Dean leaves it at that. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the situation, what they knew of it, and the way it progressed… But all’s well that ends well, right?

Except it’s not over. This isn’t a one-night stand. They’ll head back to the same motel room, and then…

What? Where do they go from here? Dean feels the weight of his confession underground. Does Sam? He bets his brother does, bets he’s thinking of ways to let Dean down easy. To make sure what happened in Norfolk stays in Norfolk.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?” Dean tries not to sound as hopeful, or cynical, as he feels.

“When we get back to the room, I’m returning the favor,” Sam says in his most tenacious tone, like he’s sure Dean will refuse.

“Dude,” Dean laughs. “You gotta let me take a shower first.”

“Hm,” his brother teases. “You know, I could use a shower myself.”

They walk back through the space where the house used to be, no evidence of it left, not even of the basement. A flat forest floor crunches beneath their boots.

Turns out some sacrifices aren't so hard to make.


End file.
